


Scar Tissue

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: HE'S NOT MAGICALLY A KID AGAIN, Hurt/Comfort, IT'S A FLASHBACK, IT'S WHEN YOU SEE A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST ALEXIS, M/M, Past Rape, Past Sex Work, THIS ISN'T A DIFFICULT CONCEPT TO FIGURE OUT, WE'RE NOT TIME TRAVELING, bae is only shown as a child, don't read if you frequently ask your friends what flashbacks are, he dead or something, idk - Freeform, jesus christ - Freeform, lookin at you alexis, past to present and such, secretive secrets, single father gold, sorry bae fans, time skips back and forth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 7,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5318180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are always bandages wrapped around Gold's leg, covering the scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a stupid lie, and a stupid way to start a relationship. Gold isn’t sure what makes him say it; he’s already got a lie in place for this, has practiced it a million times -- in the mirror and in real life -- and normally that lie, perfected, is the one that comes to mind when people ask.

But not today. Archie makes them coffee and asks innocent questions. Ones Gold hasn’t had the chance to practice.

“Where did you live before?”

 _Who cares?_ Gold thinks, then clears his throat politely and says, “A small town. You’ll have never heard of it.”

“Try me,” says Archie good-naturedly. He sits down at the kitchen table and slides a coffee mug across to Gold. “I’ve been lots of places.”

“You’ve been to Scotland?” Gold asks, eyebrows raised. Because he knows Archie hasn’t. Because Archie would’ve mentioned it before.

But Archie just shrugs, and Gold tries to tamp down an excessive amount of irritation so he can answer.

“It’s called Linmarsh,” Gold says. The word is foreign on his lips; he hasn’t said it in ten years.

“Linmarsh,” Archie repeats, stroking his chin. “Hmm. You know, I think I might have visited there once, just passing through?”

Absolute bullshit. Gold just narrows his eyes and takes a sip of coffee; if anyone rivals him in sheer number of unnecessary lies, it’s Archie. The good doctor is nearly as secretive about his past as Gold, a trait he finds equal parts admirable and irritating. Every conversation they have is a gentle waterfall of half-truths and evasions -- unless the conversation is something about cats, or romantic comedies. Which it often is, with Archie.

“So what did you do in Linmarsh?” Archie asks. Gold sets his mug down with a clink, sweeps his eyes over to the day’s newspaper. Archie has already cut out all the coupons.

“I worked,” Gold says.

“Where at?”

“In a factory.”

The lie comes easily. Gold’s worked in his share of factories. But he’s never told this particular lie before, and it sets him up painfully for the next one.

“Is that how you hurt your leg?”

“Yes,” Gold says.

 _Ah shit_ , he thinks. He continues to sip his coffee, but his eyes are staring blankly at the newspaper and he’s hyper-aware of every move Archie makes. The other man is busy stirring sugar into his drink.

 _Car accident_. The standard lie is _car accident_. Gold’s been saying he hurt his leg in a car accident for nearly two decades -- he’s told the same lie over and over again, let it roll brusquely off his tongue to anyone in Storybrooke who deigned to ask.

Briefly, Gold’s eyes slide shut. He needs to do damage control on this. If Archie ever brings it up to someone, he’ll find the discrepancy in the stories. And Archie will be smart enough to figure out that neither lie is true. Gold’s sure of it.

He feels warm skin brush against his fingers, and his eyes snap open. Archie is absent-mindedly stroking his hand.

Gold swallows his anxiety and locks it up for another day.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a flashback, alexis

His hands are rough from years of work and golden from the lamplight. Gold finds it hypnotizing to stare at his own skin -- the criss-crossing lines of his palms, the ragged edge of a fingernail, the little scars and fresh red cuts from working. He likes the thinness of his fingers and the way both veins and bones stick out as they run from his knuckles to his wrists. Gold’s hands are just about the only thing he likes about himself. They’re the only part of him that doesn’t remind him of his father -- Papa never worked hard enough or long enough to develop calluses.

He turns his hands over in the dying light and feels the aches all over his body fade away. Gold’s eyes are simultaneously open and closed; the events of the day wash off him. He forgets work. He forgets the men in the hotel. He forgets everything he said or did wrong since waking up this morning.

And it takes him ten seconds longer than normal to hear Bae calling for his papa.

Gold snaps out of it and stands in one clean motion, limping heavier than usual as he enters Bae’s room. The boy is crying from a nightmare but still half-asleep.

“Shh, Bae,” Gold whispers, wiping the tears away. “I’m here now. You’re okay.”

 _Imagine what Milah would say if she caught you getting mesmerized by your own hands_ , Gold thinks. His mouth supplies a dozen soothing platitudes for Bae, delivering them automatically while Gold’s brain is still floating somewhere in the stars. He pulls the boy into a hug until the tears stop.

Gold smells like blood. He smells like sex. If Bae were older, if he knew what either of those things smelled like, he would notice right away. But he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t have to anyway. Bae is five and five-year-olds don’t need to notice when their dads are bleeding.

“Just a nightmare, Bae,” Gold whispers, and watches Bae fall back asleep.

He wishes it was.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up to soft lips pressed against his own and has to fight hard against a smile. Gold regrets, sometimes, the way he acted when Archie first woke him with a kiss -- he’d been unaccustomed to gentleness (frightened to death by it, in fact) and he’d made a scene, pretended not to like it, demanded that Archie never do it again. But the end of the month had seen both of them drunk on a bottle of wine, and a drunk Gold was an honest and shy one, and he’d requested that Archie start kissing him again, blushing furiously the whole time.

Sober, Gold does not blush. And he most certainly does not admit that he likes being woken with a kiss.

“Morning,” Archie says, smiling down at him. Gold makes an unconvincingly disgruntled noise and sits up in bed, brushing the hair away from his face. His leg twinges and he stills for a moment, briefly afraid that the blankets might not be covering his scars. But they are -- he can see that they are -- and he stifles a sigh of relief.

“Did you hear me?” Archie asks. Gold doesn’t bother with a lie, just looks up with a ‘come again?’ expression on his face. “I said I’m making tea and waffles for breakfast,” Archie says. He smiles. “Join me?”

“In a minute,” Gold says. He doesn’t move to get out of bed; eventually, Archie’s smile drops and he nods awkwardly. His eyes shift to Gold’s leg as he stands to leave, but he snaps his gaze away again as quickly as he can. Gold pretends not to notice; he doesn’t move until Archie leaves the room.

The door shuts. Gold’s breath leaves him in a long, slow sigh.

He swears he dreamed of Bae last night, but for the life of him he can’t remember; he pushes the blankets back and grabs his cane. There’s a roll of Ace bandages in the bedside table drawer, and Archie knows it’s there, has seen it a million times, but Gold still feels nervous when he takes it out, like he’s a kid shoplifting for the very first time. He knows it isn’t very trustful, but he locks the door before he starts.

Gold is not a trusting man. Would Archie intentionally barge in on him, when he knows what Gold is doing? No, probably not. But he can think of a few dozen other people who would, who _did_ , who would do it again if he let them, and that’s what really makes him lock the door. Like he expects Cora to fly to Storybrooke just to come barging through his house, to catch him with his pants down.

Gold slides out of his pajama bottoms and starts unraveling last night’s bandages from his right leg, wrapped from ankle to mid-thigh. He’s done this so many times that he can close his eyes and let the muscle memory in his hands take over. And that’s good -- it means he doesn’t have to look at the scar.

So he closes his eyes and feels the bandages come off like a second skin. When they’re gone, Gold takes a look -- as brief as possible -- at his leg. Though scars wrap all the way around it, it’s the ones on his calf that really bother him, and he can’t see those without some particularly painful gymnastics. Gold’s eyes sweep over the old burn marks and knife wounds, clinical and cold, and then he grabs the new roll of bandages and starts covering his leg in them again. When he finishes, he sits back with a nearly inaudible sigh.

He gazes across the room, to the dresser he shares with Archie, to the time-beaten thrift-store teddy bear propped up on its surface. Archie has never asked about that bear, never asked about the three-letter name scrawled in Magic Marker and childish handwriting on the bear’s paw, never asked where it came from or why Gold has it. Gold himself doesn’t know, isn’t quite sure. He got rid of most of Bae’s things in a fit of grief, donating anything he could, burning what he couldn’t.

There’s little Gold regrets more than the day he tossed Bae’s things. It had felt like his brain wasn’t his own. It had felt that way for years.

From downstairs, Gold can hear the sound of Archie whistling as he cooks. The smell of homemade waffles is wafting through the air.

It’s time to get dressed.


	4. Chapter 4

“OK, so imagine this,” Archie says, depositing his empty plate in the sink. He walks back to the table, snags Gold’s untouched waffle from him as he passes by. Gold doesn’t look up as Archie plops down in one of the uncomfortable kitchen chairs. “There’s a cricket, named Embry, and he lives in the forest--”

“Why Embry?” Gold asks, glancing up from the newspaper. He waits as Archie chews a mouthful of waffle.

“Because,” Archie says with a gulp, “you won’t tell me your first name, so last night I was thinking of what it could be, and I thought of Embry.”

“And then you immediately bestowed that name on a fictional cricket.”

“Well, I figured it wasn’t very likely that your name was _actually_ Embry,” Archie explains. “And I like it, so why _not_ give it to a fictional cricket?”

Gold only raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of tea.

“Anyway,” Archie says, “he lives in a forest. And I think the moral is gonna be about respecting people’s privacy, not telling secrets, stuff like that. But I’m not sure what the secret is gonna be, or how it’ll relate to crickets.”

“Perhaps you should use human characters,” Gold suggests with just a hint of dryness to his voice. “I believe that’s the standard for children’s literature these days.”

“Kids love animals!” Archie protests.

“ _Animals_ ,” Gold says. His nose wrinkles. “Not small, crawly insects.”

He wriggles his fingers to evoke spider-legs and turns back to his newspaper. Across the table, Archie rests his cheek on his hand and hums. Gold can practically hear him thinking. After a few minutes, he glances up and catches Archie in the middle of a slow epiphany; the other man’s hands come up gradually, fingers splayed, as his jaw drops and he works the details out. Amused, Gold sets his tea down and waits it out.

“OK,” says Archie, “so what about this? The _cricket_ … has a _friend_ … who’s a _bird_.”

He widens his eyes and nods a little, in what Gold would term a ‘self-encouraging’ gesture.

“Bravo,” Gold says. “That truly was a revelation.”

“I’m not done!”

“Well, take your time. Why a bird?”

“ _Because_ ,” Archie says emphatically, jabbing a finger into the surface of the table, “birds _eat_ crickets. So that can be their secret. This bird _doesn’t_ eat crickets, he’s a vegetarian. He’s on a strict, no-cricket diet.”

“Much like everyone else in the world,” Gold notes. Archie gives him an exasperated look.

“The point is, the predator has made friends with the prey. And then they both have to keep that secret, or everything is ruined.”

“Yes, imagine the media sensation,” Gold agrees. He reaches for the kettle and re-fills his cup of tea while Archie tries to simultaneously eat his waffles and write down notes. “So why is everything ruined?” Gold asks, letting the tea cool a little. “Does the local bird council frown on inter-species relationships? Or is this an adolescent bird, whose parents are still capable of grounding him? And by the way, what’s this bird’s name?”

“Edgar,” Archie says. He gives up eating entirely and just keeps scribbling in his little pocket notebook, his large hand cramping to work with such small lines.

“Edgar is not a very avian name,” Gold remarks.

“Don’t be silly, it means ‘raven,’” Archie says.

“It means ‘fortunate and powerful,’ Archie, don’t fight me on names,” Gold says. “You should name the bird Jay.”

The look Archie gives him is full of both pity and pain. “You can’t name a bird character _Jay_ ,” he says.

“Why not? It comes from ‘bluejay.’ Which is a bird.”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Archie says. “What if I want Edgar to be an owl, or a sparrow? You can’t name an owl or a sparrow _Jay_.”

“Then don’t make him an owl or sparrow,” says Gold, affronted. He starts to take a drink of tea and then stops as another thought pops into his head. “And besides, you’re a _therapist_ , Archie. Since when do you have time to be writing children’s books?”

Archie turns a page in his notebook and continues scribbling, ignoring the question. When Gold cranes his neck, he can just make out the upside-down words ‘Edgar’ and ‘scar,’ as well as a sketch of a bird. Gold winces a little at the rudimentary drawing; it looks like a potato with two forks for legs.

A minute passes with nothing but the sound of pencil on paper and the clinking of Gold’s teacup against the table. He stares down at the tea leaves for a moment, swishes them in the dregs. Gold wishes he could read tea leaves sometimes; his foster mothers had been softcore lovers of the occult, had even tried to teach him once, but he’d always been a bit too dense to learn. His eyebrows furrow in thought.

Archie turns another page, ripping it at the edge. He’s writing furiously.

“Colm,” Gold says.

Archie looks up. His eyebrows are furrowed, too, lips slightly parted.

“Colm is a bird’s name,” Gold offers. “It’s Irish-Gaelic. It means ‘dove.’”

There’s a long pause.

“Edgar isn’t a dove,” says Archie uncertainly. Gold only shrugs; he goes to sip his tea, forgetting that the cup is empty, and then pretends to drink anyway so as not to lose face.

“He could be,” Gold says. “Just as surely as he could be an owl or a sparrow.”

“Yes,” Archie concedes, but it sounds like a question mark. He twirls the pencil between his fingers, eyes far away as he thinks. Then he nods once, like a punctuation mark at the end of a thought, and turns back to his notes. “Colm it is,” he says, and he finishes the last three sentences with a flourish, packs the notes away. “How do you spell Colm, by the way?”

“C-O-L-M. Did you work out the plot?” Gold asks, half-smiling. Archie returns the gesture with a beaming grin, like he always does.

“Yup. I don’t think I’m gonna mention the fact that birds eat crickets -- it’s a bit too _Ernest & Celestine_, you know what I mean?”

Gold tilts his head, hair falling onto his shoulder as he does. “So what’s the secret?” he asks.

The look in Archie’s eyes -- a grave mixture of mischief and solemnity -- is the only warning Gold gets for the uncomfortable conversation ahead.

“I think Colm’s gonna have a scar on his leg,” says Archie, “that he covers up with bandages, even when he and Embry are having sex.”

If Gold were a lesser man, he would be sputtering. As it is, he can’t hide the shock that covers his face for a second, before his usual blank mask falls into place. He takes his teacup in his hands, wishing it was full again so he could sip from it and stall for time.

“This book has become graphically inappropriate in the span of three notebook pages,” Gold says. Archie’s eyes don’t register his attempt at humor, and Gold’s heart sinks -- the other man has already decided this conversation will be a serious heart-to-heart. Gold’s not sure that even he can escape a therapist who’s hell-bent on having a _talk_.

“You went through an awful lot of preamble just to take a jab at me,” Gold says, unable to keep his voice from turning snide. Archie’s face remains a tranquil sort of blank -- it pisses Gold off to no end (has _always_ pissed him off) that Archie’s poker face is better than his own.

“I’m not making fun or criticizing,” Archie says. He slides the notebook away from him, to the edge of the table. “I just think we should talk about it. We’ve been dating for nearly a year now, you know, and we hardly know anything about each other. We sleep together all the time but I’ve never even seen you without bandages on your leg.”

“I can assure you, you don’t want to,” Gold says. His voice sounds too soft for his liking, barely a step above a whisper. He waits for Archie to argue with him, to try to convince him he’s wrong.

After a year, he should really know Archie better than that.

“Why do you think that?” Archie asks gently. “Why do you think I don’t want to see your leg?”

There’s a long pause. Gold’s fingers curl into a fist, nails digging into his palm. He can feel himself flushing -- he refuses to call it a _blush_ \-- as he tries to think of any answer that doesn’t make him too vulnerable, that doesn’t reveal too much. He hates when Archie asks him questions like this. It makes him feel like a patient with an over-caring doctor, makes him feel like every question is designed to bring up things he’s refused to feel for years.

Briefly, Gold’s eyes slide closed. When he opens them, his face is blank again and he’s back in control.

“You know I don’t like answering questions about my past,” he says, a quiet rebuke. Archie’s mask breaks a little, shows the softness underneath.

“I know,” he says, and then concedes, “I don’t, either.”

“I know.”

For the third time, Gold goes to drink from an empty cup. This time, his exasperation is muted, but he stands to deposit the cup in the sink.

“Rules are rules,” Gold says with an air of finality. “I told you the first time we slept together that I wouldn’t take the bandages off. And I told you we wouldn’t shower together, either. If you don’t accept the rules anymore, then …”

He wants to say, “then you can leave,” but even with the firm knowledge that Archie _won’t_ , Gold is too afraid to say those words aloud. He swallows them and hopes Archie won’t mention it.

Archie doesn’t.

“I accept the rules,” he says with just enough sarcasm for Gold to know that ‘rules’ is surrounded by quotation marks. “Although I’d like to point out that it’s not like we signed a _contract_ or anything.”

Gold’s smile is 95% sincere. “Verbal contracts are binding,” he says, and glances at the clock, which has steadily been creeping closer to 8:00 a.m. Archie follows his gaze and sighs, standing up from the table.

“I better head to work,” he mumbles. Gold nods; the pawnshop doesn’t open ‘till nine, so he always has a half-hour or so to himself in the house, after Archie leaves. He can’t remember it ever being a pleasant half-hour; even when happy, Gold’s mind tends toward dark places when he’s alone.

“Have fun, then,” he says, and watches Archie’s smile twitch. Neither of them have quite gotten over the tension from a moment ago, though both are pretending fairly well.

“I will,” Archie says, and leans forward for a kiss, lips warm and dry. “I love you,” he says, pulling back.

“Hm,” Gold hums. He can make words dance off his tongue any time of the day, so long as those words aren’t ‘I love you.’ Gold still isn’t sure why his muscles lock up at such a simple phrase. He used to be able to say it just fine, back when Bae was still alive.

Archie calls Pongo to him and leaves without another word.


	5. Chapter 5

The first one is gentle.

That’s an anomaly, Gold thinks -- it must be. Because in movies, in books, in real life, it seems like every sex worker remembers their first time as being rough, as being unkind or violent or a straight-up robbery. But not for Gold. His first time is, considering the circumstances, as gentle as can be.

The other man is big, a man Gold’s seen selling firewood along the roadside, the sort of man who dresses as a lumberjack without a trace of irony. It’s not the customer’s first time with a man, but it _is_ Gold’s -- his first time as an adult, at least -- and he’s stupidly grateful later on that he was lucky enough to be found by this man instead of by some of his other customers on that night.

This man likes smaller men, men with long hair and pale skin. He doesn’t like the calluses on Gold’s hands or the lean muscles he has from work, but pickings are slim enough in Linmarsh that he becomes a regular anyway. In a bigger town or a city, perhaps people would be more accepting of Gold, but in a city, his customers would be able to choose someone who perfectly fits their fantasy, and Gold knows without a doubt that none of them would return to him.

So he gives a blowjob behind a seedy little pub and goes to the grocery store afterward with enough money to buy food for the next few days, so long as it’s cheap. He wipes his mouth in front of the bathroom mirror, paranoid to miss something and have the cashier point it out.

He buys Bae Lunchables and juice boxes. There’s a fruit stand he passes on the way home, loaded with fresh apples that no one’s bothered to clean. They’re unbruised, but when Gold gathers them into a bag his hand comes away with a light smattering of dirt. He hands over the money -- Bae rarely gets fresh fruit with his school lunches -- and heads home with the bag of apples swinging at his side.

The first one is gentle.


	6. Chapter 6

“Do you wanna watch a movie?”

Archie’s sitting on the couch when Gold comes home, grinning like a fat cat and clutching a plastic bag from the general store.

“There was a sale on all these classics from the ‘80s,” he explains. “Five dollars each. I got _Flashdance_ and _Pretty Woman_ , if you wanna watch.”

Gold doesn’t remember much from the ‘80s; the entire decade is a blur of odd jobs and fatherhood, with just a few bright spots where Bae’s involved. He can’t even begin to guess what these movies are about or whether he’s seen them before; the actors are unfamiliar, American, forgettable. Archie hands him the DVDs and stands up, heading toward the kitchen for snacks.

 _Surprise, surprise_ , Gold thinks. _Send Archie to do the grocery shopping and he comes home with two romantic comedies and a bag of crisps._

His eyes flicker from the scantily-clad woman on _Flashdance’s_ cover to the well-dressed couple on _Pretty Woman_. Best to play it safe, he supposes -- while Archie’s humming in the kitchen, Gold pops _Pretty Woman_ into the DVD player.

He doesn’t know what he’s in for.

The first few scenes, a montage of the most stereotypical sex-work myths, leave him with a dry mouth and a thumping in his brain that might turn into a headache. And it doesn’t get better as the movie goes on. He sits there, with Archie’s thigh touching his, and in his brain, lines are repeating over and over again until they become almost like a song. His throat is getting tight. His stomach is heavy. His lungs feel like they’ve been tied up in knots.

But outwardly, he looks as calm as ever, and Gold can’t even grasp the strength to break that illusion and make Archie turn off the TV.


	7. Chapter 7

The bandages stay on during sex. It’s a steadfast rule of Gold’s -- he doesn’t care how much it “impedes” either of their pleasure, the bandages stay on. At this point in the relationship, Archie hardly seems to notice -- at the very least, he doesn’t mention it anymore, doesn’t try to convince Gold to talk. Doesn’t pry.

Sex is one of Gold’s specialties. He knows how to balance the time so it’s long enough to be pleasurable but not so long that it starts to hurt. He knows that in the grand scheme of things, ‘long enough to hurt’ only applies to one partner. And he also knows -- he berates himself with this, feels the red tongue of shame curling in his gut -- that that’s an _old_ rule, that it doesn’t apply anymore. With Archie, it’s important that _both_ of them are comfortable.

This is not a business transaction.

Gold repeats that in his head like a mantra as he works through the stages of pleasure with Archie. There’s an old biscuit tin on their nightstand that’s full of little things to help them along -- ribbed condoms, flavored lube, cock rings. Glow-in-the-dark body paint … that one was Archie’s purchase. Archie never asks how Gold learned different tricks; no one _ever_ asks those questions in the gay scene. It’s only straight women who are surprised, and Gold’s dealings with straight women have been very sparse over the last few years.

Skin on skin. Low lighting. Bitter flavors.

And then it’s over.

Gold doesn’t like to cuddle afterward -- he says it’s too hot and sits on the edge of the bed instead, or goes into the bathroom for a shower. And Archie doesn’t question this. But after the shower, or after they’ve cooled down, or after they’ve cleaned up, Gold can never think of any excuses.

So they put on their pajamas (well, Gold does) and they lie in bed, cuddling about as much as Gold is willing to allow.

The warmth, exhaustion, the sound of rain outside -- it all combines to lull Gold into a state between sleep and waking, daydreaming about things that come and go so quickly that he can’t remember them even one second later.

He doesn’t realize Archie is speaking to him until the other man nudges him in the ribs.

“What?” Gold says, startled out of sleep.

“I said I’m glad we can be honest with each other,” Archie says. He’s smiling gently -- everything he does is too gentle, and normally it either makes Gold’s chest hurt or it pisses him off. Today, he just accepts it.

“Honest about what?” Gold asks, like Archie’s tricking him somehow.

“I don’t know,” Archie says. “Our insecurities. And fears. Everything.”

Gold snorts. The bandages on his leg feel loose, like the adhesive has worn away from all their movement a few minutes ago.

“What are your insecurities and fears, then?” he asks. “Since we’re so honest.”

Archie thinks for a while, not seeming to take offense at the sarcasm in Gold’s voice. His eyes roam over the ceiling.

“My weight,” he says. “My hair. I’m going bald.”

Gold’s gaze flickers up to Archie’s forehead, and then away again. “You’ll look great bald,” he says. “It’s in-style now.”

“Right,” Archie says.

“It is. I saw it in a fashion magazine.”

Archie laughs, probably imagining Gold at the grocery store, flipping through Elle and Vogue. Gold considers buying one, just to print off pictures of Kevin Spacey and paste them inside.

“That superhero you like is bald,” he points out, trying to remember the character’s name. Archie is laughing harder now.

“Gold, no superhero is _bald_! You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m not,” Gold says. “The one with the eyepatch. In the movie you like.”

“Very specific,” Archie says. He’s in the middle of rolling his eyes when he realizes who Gold is referencing. “Wait, are you talking about Nick Fury? From the Avengers? He’s not a superhero.”

“Yes, he is,” says Gold, who knows next to nothing about superheroes. “He’s an Avenger.”

“He’s their _boss_.”

“Why would their boss not be a superhero? How will he keep them in line? He can’t ever fire any of them because the giant metal man will just burn him and the spy girl will break his neck.”

“He can’t be a superhero because he doesn’t have any powers!” Archie says, unable to stop himself from laughing.

“Batman doesn’t have powers,” Gold says stubbornly. “Neither does the spy girl, or the man with the arrows. Right?”

“Oh my God.” Archie shakes his head. “One day, Gold, I promise you, you’re going to be trying to intimidate someone, over rent or whatever, and I’m gonna come up behind you with a video tape of this _very conversation_ and you won’t be able to get any bullying done at _all_. Just you wait.”

“Don’t be a bastard,” Gold says amiably. “I’m trying to make you less insecure.”

“Right.”

Gold rolls over on top of Archie for a moment, reaching over him to grab the other man’s glasses from the bedside table. Gold puts them on and leans back; he crosses his legs under the blanket, bandages scraping against skin, and folds his hands the way he imagines Archie does during a therapy session.

“Now tell me about your fears,” he says. Archie stares at him with wide eyes and then bursts into laughter, doubling over so his head is resting in Gold’s lap.

“Heights,” he says between giggles. “You?”

“Spiders,” Gold replies. He hands the glasses over; carefully, Archie returns them to their position on the nightstand. “And that’s a secret that stays between us, Dr. Hopper.”

“No one else knows?” Archie asks, grinning. Gold relaxes from his Therapist Posture, lying back down amongst the blankets.

“It’s a secret between _us_ ,” he corrects himself, “and the tenant I had who thought he could keep pet tarantulas without telling me.”

 _And Bae_ , Gold thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. Bae doesn’t count anymore; the police have assured him of that.

“What about your insecurities?” Archie asks, settling down, too. He props his head up on his hand, smiling at Gold. “Since we’re both being honest.”

Gold shifts a little and feels his bandages almost come undone. He’ll need to change them later tonight -- when Archie’s asleep, so the other man won’t see.

“ _Since_ we’re being honest,” he says, mimicking Archie’s accent, “I don’t have any.”

Archie grins, the kind of soft, affectionate look he gives Gold from time to time, when he’s too in-love to call the other man out on a lie. Gold is unfathomably grateful to see that look right now. He’s not ready for an in-depth conversation about his insecurities.

For tonight, he’s the most confident man in the world.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter is a rape scene so if that triggers you, skip to the next one.

There are hands around his throat; not strangling him, just choking. But he doesn’t want to be choked, and he’s terrified and his leg feels broken -- can it possibly be broken? -- and a part of him can’t tell the difference between choking and strangling anymore. Not when it’s dark here, the lights turned off, and he’s fully clothed and thought he was safe because he’s home, where Bae is sleeping, and the grocery bags he was carrying have spilled all over the kitchen floor. And his leg is bleeding. He heard a snap. It must be broken.

He didn’t get to see the man who grabbed him. He recognizes him, though, from the scent of his breath and the shards of a voice that can be garnered from a few sparse groans. From how big his hands are and where the calluses are. From the fact that nobody else would break into Gold’s apartment and wait there for him, wait to do this.

The other man doesn’t bother to cover Gold’s mouth. He knows Gold won’t scream, out of either pain or fear -- it could wake Bae, and then the kid would run into the kitchen and see what’s happening and be in just as much danger as his father.

“Take off your trousers,” the man whispers. Gold obeys him, hands shaking. Moving his jeans over the shard of bone that’s sticking through his right calf. It hurts worse than he remembers -- he broke the same leg when he was seven, when he was hiding under somebody car and they got in and drove right over him. There are tears leaking from his eyes but he doesn’t make a sound when the other man grabs his arm and flips him over. He wants to get this over with quickly -- he knows what positions this man likes, knows what makes him happy. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.

But it takes forty-five, and it’s painful from the start. Not just because of his leg.

Gold turns his head to the side and stares at the tiled kitchen floor, at the cans of chicken and rice he bought for Bae, some of them dented now from falling out of his hands.

If he turns his head to the other side -- it hurts to move; the other man’s thrusts are too violent; Gold’s head is banging against the floor -- he can see the living room that doubles as a bedroom for himself and his son. He can see Bae’s hair sticking out from under a Disney blanket. Fast asleep. And if he wakes up, if he turns his head to the side, he’ll meet Gold’s eyes, and see the man lying on top of him--

“Ah!” Gold cries, barely louder than a whisper. He has to bite back his own voice, but he can barely see through a mix of tears and abrupt, boiling pain. It takes him a while to realize what’s happened -- the other man has pulled out, but he hasn’t left. He’s touching the nub of bone sticking out of Gold’s leg, peeling back bits of broken flesh with his fingernails.

“Does that hurt?” he asks, voice low. Gold can’t muster a reply; he hears a clicking noise and vaguely registers that the other man has pulled out a knife.

Gold stares at the ceiling, marveling quietly at the fact that he is not afraid. He hasn’t been able to claim that in quite a few years.

It must be the exhaustion talking.

“You ever think about getting a tattoo?” asks the man who just raped him. Gold tries to lift his head, to look at the other man, but he can’t gather up enough energy. “I think you’d look nice with one. On your leg, maybe. Like a brand, to tell people who you are.”

“I don’t need one,” Gold whispers. He’s not thinking about his replies like he normally would; he’s imagining Bae waking up and finding him like this. He barely hears the other man laugh.

“Well, I think you do. I’ll let you choose, though -- do you want it to say ‘slut,’ ‘whore,’ or ‘fag’?”

Gold doesn’t answer. He sees Bae stir in the other room.

When the knife blade cuts into his skin, he barely feels it.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The door is open.

His bandages are off.

All he needs to do is walk downstairs as he is, with the scar in plain view, and talk to Archie. He can hear Archie walking around the kitchen, opening cabinets, getting out plates and silverware for supper. Easy target. All Gold has to do is walk.

All he has to do is walk.

All he has to do is walk.

He takes a deep breath, contemplates making that first step, going out into the hallway, down the stairs. He tries to imagine himself standing in the hall in just his boxers, no bandages, his leg in plain view.

His heart speeds up.

All he has to do is walk.


	10. Chapter 10

When one of his regulars sees the cheap cane Gold’s been using, he offers to buy him a new one, a nicer one. His dad’s a woodworker, he says, it would be easy as pie. Just come with him to take the measurements; it’ll be done within a week. But later, when their clothes are off and Gold’s scars are on display, the offer is silently revoked.

Another customer, not exactly a regular yet, but a recurring face, asks Gold, “Did you do that yourself?” Like Gold would break his own leg and carve letters into it. Like a permanent limp is something everybody wants, just a unique character trait to gain attention from passersby. Like scars are fashionable.

One man says, “I’m sorry, I’m just not really into the whole cripple thing. Sorry.” And he never shows up again.

One woman tells him, “It’s awful about your leg, but everyone’s got to grow up sometime. Maybe this is just God’s way of telling you to get a real job.”

Like he doesn’t have a real job. Like sex work isn’t a real job -- and even if it weren’t, like his jobs at the factory and the deli somehow don’t count. Like he’s selling his time because he’s childish, because he’s immature.

Like rape is a sign from God.

And it doesn’t stop with customers. He goes to the doctor and gets a new nurse, one who doesn’t remember when he came to the emergency room a year ago with a broken leg, and when she sees the scars on his leg and realizes they’re actually letters, she stares at him like she’s smelt something rotten.

And it doesn’t stop with the medical profession, because his customers live in town and all of them have friends, and soon there are people he doesn’t even know shooting him looks of either pity or disgust.

And it doesn’t stop with strangers, because one day Bae sees him changing and reads the word on his leg, and asks him, “Daddy, what does that mean?” So Gold tells him, because he’s an honest man, and he watches his seven-year-old son’s face shutter off. Too much confusion. Too many new words to remember. Too many conflicting emotions for a first-grader. He asks to watch cartoons and Gold offers to watch with him and Bae says yes, but he hesitates.

And it doesn’t stop.

It doesn’t stop.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

He takes the bandages off in the morning so he can take a shower, and then he puts new ones on. He changes them before bed, after sex, or even if it’s raining outside and he thinks the adhesive has gotten weaker from all the puddles he’s stepped in. He doesn’t change his clothes when Archie is the room -- what if the bandages have slipped without him noticing? What if Archie catches a glimpse of the word underneath?

Day after day. Week after week.

Gold sits in the bathroom now, perched on the edge of the tub, wearing only his underwear. He remembers two weeks ago, when he stood with the bedroom door open and tried to convince himself to walk outside. His vision gets blurry as he thinks about it; he pauses, both hands busy tying bandages, and wipes his eyes on his forearm. It’s hard to think like this. It’s hard to breathe.

 _Concentrate on the bandages_ , he tells himself. He narrows his eyes at them, sniffing, and tugs them tighter around his leg. Then the inexplicable lump in his throat gets too big and too painful, and he drops the bandages so he can cover his face instead, fingers holding all his features in place like that will stop him from crying.

He has _nothing_ to cry over. _Everything is fine._ Everything is fine.

Gold sniffs again and swipes at his eyes once before grabbing the ends of the bandages. His whole body is trembling and he tells himself it’s from cold, that he needs to just get dressed already. But his hands aren’t listening. They’re undoing the bandages, leaving his leg bare.

Gold hasn’t looked at his own scars in a long time. But he hasn’t forgotten a single detail -- the scraggly lines of the W, the lopsided O, the E that looks like an F because the last line is so faint, worn away by time. Everything seems smaller now. Less obvious. He runs his fingers over the ridges and thinks that maybe, by the time he’s seventy, the scar will have faded so much that no one will even notice it. He could go to the beach without bandages on and no one would say a thing.

He remembers Bae, twelve years old and crying but _furious_ , yelling at Gold with all the anger of a teenager, begging for comfort, quietly, like the child he was. Listing in detail all the rumors he’d heard at school. Twelve-year-old Bae didn’t remember seeing Gold’s scars when he was seven. For him, it was like all this information, culled from grade-school insults, was brand new.

And he’d wanted to see the scars. He’d wanted to know if it was true. And he’d been horrified, locked himself in his room for hours, but when he came down to dinner --

Gold sits up slowly, his chest constricting. He hasn’t thought about this in ages. He remembered the horror, remembered Bae locking himself away. But he hasn’t thought about what happened afterward in years.

The hug. At twelve, Bae considered himself too old for hugs, but it didn’t stop him from initiating this one. And then his words later, spoken with a tinge of adolescent embarrassment that Gold had nearly forgotten.

_ It doesn’t matter, Dad. I love you. _

Gold sits on the edge of the bathtub, his bandages forgotten, for ten minutes. He isn’t crying anymore. He’s amazed at himself for forgetting.

But he can’t sit here forever, so he unwraps the last few loops of bandages around his ankle and throws them in the trash, and he’s barely stood up when there’s a knock at the door and he freezes again.

“Gold?” says Archie, his voice muffled. “Are you done in there?”

Gold stares at the door, unable to speak.

“Come on,” Archie says, “I need to brush my teeth.”

The doorknob rattles, locked, and there’s a quiet curse from the other side. Gold looks down at his leg, at the now-faint word that curls around his calf. Decades old -- he’s been wrapping this scar for decades now, paranoid that someone would see.

_It doesn’t matter, Dad._

Gold unlocks the door, takes a deep breath, and opens it.


End file.
